The Siege of Erebor
by eichenschild
Summary: After nearly 80 years of peace, the Dwarves of Erebor once again face battle and death and this time, their defeat could mean the defeat of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth. Regal and just, the King under the Mountain is determined to defend his homelands once again and to fight for the freedom of the Longbeards and their allies in the South. - Sequel to 'Men-i-Naugrim'
1. Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

The many torches decorating the high, black walls flickered in the hot breeze coming from the midlands and the vast fields beyond the towers of Minas Morgul. Fires painted the clouded sky in a blazing red and a sizzling lay in the air, that nearly deafened the many black creatures crawling outside the slopes of the mountains, lingering before the front Gate of the City. Something was about to happen. Some great orders had been given.

A messenger from Barad-dûr had arrived.

A massive, black Mordor Orc with frightening, metal forged armour, taller than most but not quite the size of an Uruk-Hai. He bore his teeth and growled at the cowering underlings, following his every step as he marched across the wide bridge up to the Gates and – with a clear and threatening voice – demanded entrance.

The massive Gates opened as if by an invisible hand and a shrill screeching echoed across the bleak fields before the City, long and painful enough for the Orcs to hold their ears and hiss and snarl at the sound. They were not welcome within the City walls. It wasn't their realm, not their place to be in. It was the City of the Nazgûl and the residence of their Lord and Leader, the Witchking of Angmar.

While the Orc strode through the Gate and across another wide bridge towards the high walls of the tower that formed the centre of the City, he was watched by many eyes, lingering far above his head. Flying monstrosities, crying and screaming down at him with their horrible, strident voices that sent shivers down his spine. He knew well how to handle Orcs and Uruks, knew how to order Goblins and Trolls around, but something – a small, quite timid voice in the back of his head – told him to remain humble for he was about to step in front of the strongest ally his Master could have wished for.

He entered the tower and passed through halls and corridors before he was eventually led to the very peak of the tower. Gazing to his right and out the window, he spotted a massive, beefy tail dangling from the roof and another shrill screech made him tremble. Those flying beasts scared the living hell out of him, for they were large enough to eat an Orc whole and with one single bite. Nazgûl, he believed, were not to be trusted. Those who were dead were supposed to remain dead forever.

Uneasy, the tall Orc entered another black hall and stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed the dark, cloaked figure standing by a massive throne, made from iron and onyx and carved into a direful shape of countless thorns and spikes. A strong gush of wind made the torches flicker and dark banners swelled on the walls, eliciting a strong urge to leg it within the fierce Orc. This truly was not his realm. He did not belong here.

"The Master sends orders, my Lord", he began, his voice not so clear anymore but confident nonetheless. Showing weakness before the Witchking could easily end in him leaving this tower without his head attached to his shoulders. "The march to Gondor has begun but the Master fears the allies in the North. He wishes them annihilated before they can join forces with the Southerners."

"I am aware of the movement of my troops", the voice of the Nazgûl resounded in his head like the dark, deep hissing of massive beast of prey. "I shall join the battle for it is my duty to bring victory to my Master. Don't attempt to teach me, Orc."

"I'm sorry. Sorry. I humbly apologize, my Lord", the Orc quickly bowed his head to the cloaked man, backing off a little. "I have merely come to deliver the Master's wish to have the North secured. The allies in the North are strong and great in number. They have kept the realms of Gundabad and the Grey Mountains at peace for over 70 years now. Should they join in this battle, the chances-"

"Enough!" the Orc flinched and backed off even further. The mere presence of the Witchking sent his heart into flight and he wished to leave immediately. "An army shall be dispatched to the North to crush the allied realms before they can even attempt to support the South. Send for the Easterlings, let them deal with the Northern armies."

"The- the Easterlings, my Lord? Might you not send a bigger, better army? The Master is alerted as to the strength of the North."

"The Master will not need to worry. As long as a single mountain remains the biggest stronghold of the North, the Easterlings will suffice."

"It is not the mountain that worries the Master, my Lord. It is he who rules the realm. The King under the Mountain."

"He will be crushed. Just as the Eye commands."

The steps from his heavy leather boots echoed as he rushed down the many stairs right to the bottom of the tower, as if his Master's whips were after him. Nothing held him in this gruesome place and it was plain and pure fear driving him on. The Witchking had quickly dismissed him, he had delivered his message, there was no reason for him to linger in this forsaken place longer than he had to. A thought had begun to grow and prosper in the back of his mind though. A fear, maybe greater than the presence of the Nazgûl had caused him.

Secluded and many miles away, they had not cared about the happenings in the North since the defeat of the mighty Gundabad Orcs some seventy years ago but something had changed in those realms. The curse that had rested on the large Dwarven fortress had vanished, leaving the Mountain in peace and plenty and with the focus on the Gondorians and the fall of the Race of Men, no Mordor Orc had ever bothered with the single one question that mercilessly drilled itself into the skull of Sauron's messenger, as he fled the dark Gates of Minas Morgul: how great and powerful did a Kingdom have to be to conserve peace for nearly a century?

A kingdom that had not faltered, not fallen, had never been betrayed or defeated for good. A kingdom that had never suffered true despair for they had always fought for their kin, their realm, their hope; that lingered in the hearts of the Northerners. And it was this hope, this strength, that frightened the black Orc for it was a hope that was not to be found in the hearts of the Men of Gondor and possibly stronger than shields and blades. And while he ran from the City and headed for Barad-dûr and the Halls of his Master, he silently worried that the Witchking of Angmar was about to make a grave mistake. For he surely should not underestimate the King under the Mountain.


	2. Chapter 2

Right my lovely lads and lasses! We will once again follow the adventures of our wonderful Heirs of Durin. I will continue in good old 'Men-i-Naugrim' tradition, meaning quite short Chapters and regular updates, but surely not daily again. My schedule won't let me write that much. I hope I can upload twice a week and I'll try and upload more often but I can't promise anything.

As usual: my inbox is open for One-Shot requests and I still love reviews more than anything so review away! ;) A little side note: 'The Ring of Thrór' will be on hiatus for a while but I will certainly finish that story as well one day!

Now, enjoy the first Chapter of 'The Siege of Erebor'!

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CHAPTER I

The freezing waters stood knee-high, washing against the hoofs of Brego but the gentle steed did not seem to mind. He pranced a little, avoiding bits and pieces of flotsam as well as he could, while an unlikely company waded across the drowned fields around Orthanc, the great black tower that stood at the centre of Isengard. The horses carefully searched for solid ground, fearing that they would drop into the flooded chasms that went well deep into the earth, down to Saruman's forges and mines, his unholy Halls and mephitic dwellings, were he had bred and cultivated abominable creatures, kept Wargs and fed men flesh to them and forged weapons with such a destructive force, that King Théoden still shivered at the mere thought of them.

The Battle of the Hornburg was not long won, fatigue and pain still resting deep within the bones of the unlikely company, yet they knew that they would have no time to rest. The enemy did not sleep and grew stronger and stronger with each passing day.

At the fore of the little fellowship rode Aragorn, securely leading his horse around the drop offs and cracked walls. Théoden and Éomer were right behind him, followed closely by Gandalf and Legolas, the Elf looking around in wonder. Though by now used to the death and decay a large battle inevitably brought, the destruction that had happened to Isengard was of an entirely different making and he glimpsed around curiously. Before him, sitting steady and safely on the back of Arod, the beautiful white horse the Rohirrim had given to Legolas as a gift, was Merry, brooding and concerned, puffing on his pipe every now and then.

The massive shapes of Ents moved across the horizons while the Shepherds of the Trees retreated to their dwellings, leaving Isengard in a desolate state. The Battle of Isengard was won, Saruman defeated and one of Sauron's strongholds well destroyed. Gandalf quietly smiled to himself, watching the destruction though he silently grieved for his corrupted friend.

"This is one battle won", Éomer sighed, carefully kicking a floating wooden box with his foot. "But only one. What now Mithrandir? Shall we all return to our holds and wait for the next attack?"

"Optimistic as usual, my dear Chief Marshal, optimistic as usual", the wizard chuntered quietly and Éomer returned a brief smile to another little Hobbit. Pippin had gotten comfortable on Firefoot, Éomer's apple grey. He chewed on a pear, occasionally feeding bits of it to other horses should they come close enough.

"This was undoubtedly only the beginning of something bigger", Théoden mused, silently sharing his nephew's worries. "Sauron's armies are on the rise and I fear that the next attack will strike near the borders of Rohan once again."

"Gondor", Éomer nodded.

"If the attack is launched on Gondor alone, Sauron runs a chance to be defeated", Gandalf mused, steering Shadowfax a little further away from Pippin's generous hands. "Especially if Rohan decides to come to Gondor's aid."

"Not before it calls for it", Théoden chuntered, drawing a low chuckle from his nephew.

"We might be well advised to secure the North", the wizard continued his musings, entirely ignoring the rude ways of the King of Rohan. "If Sauron's armies attack from Angmar and combine their power with the dark forces that threaten Dol Guldur, Gondor will be in serious danger, as will all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth."

"The North is well secured!" the Dwarf in their midst suddenly disrupted the pondering, while secretly hoping that the Hobbits might share a pipe. Gimli seemed most displeased, clutching Aragorn's jerkin in an iron clad grip while he feared falling off Brego's broad backside and into the waters to disappear beneath the black surface forever, probably dying side by side with Orcs and other filth that drifted down in the chasms and caves of Isengard.

"Is it now?" Aragorn curiously peeked over his shoulder, down at the Dwarf.

"Of course it is! It is the realm of my dear cousin after all! The best King that Erebor ever had!"

"You're the cousin of a King?" Pippin chipped in, obviously curious now. "So you're royalty then?"

"Indeed I am!" Aragorn snorted quietly and Gandalf rolled his eyes. "I come from a long line of noble Dwarves that leads back to the days when this very solid ground we're walking on was first formed!"

"There's nothing solid around here though", Éomer remarked dryly, waiting for an axe to hit his armour. It was a mere evil look the Dwarf shot him though and he smiled almost apologetic.

"Me and the King of Erebor, we grew up together! Played together when we were children! We're very close! So close even, that nothing could part us I dare say!" Gimli had never looked more proud in his life, leaving the wizard a little surprised to say the least. A quiet voice in his head told him to doubt the Dwarven boasting a little but he kept his doubts to himself, watching the beaming faces of the Hobbits with a small smile on his lips.

"The Dwarves of Erebor have secluded themselves from the happenings of this earth for many years. I doubt that they would readily step in to defend a realm that is not theirs", Théoden remarked. He glanced at the destruction around them and once again felt alone and abandoned with his misery. It was a war of Men that lay before them. He would not risk relying on Elven or Dwarven help in this.

"He is unusually wise for a Dwarf and remarkably approachable", Gandalf retorted, once again steering his steed away from curious Hobbit fingers. "There is a good chance that he will understand that the fall of Gondor will mean an ultimate defeat. Nobody can ignore this war. Not even the Dwarves of the North."

"So you have met him before? The King of Erebor?" Aragorn asked, once again surprised by the many roads Gandalf had taken in his life before.

"I have indeed. We've ventured out on a quest together many years ago and I witnessed his rise to the throne and the rebuilding of Erebor myself. We did not part on good terms however", the wizard admitted quietly. "It very well seems as if he distrusts me a little."

A strange silence followed, spreading across the dark waters like a choking veil. While the initial distrust in Gandalf's sincerity did not surprise Théoden and Éomer too much, Legolas and the Hobbits seemed genuinely puzzled, for they had encountered Gandalf as a wise man and a good leader, maybe an enigma even, returning from the dead.

"What do you propose we do then?" Aragorn remained the only one unfazed. He didn't even flinch when Gimli grasped his jerkin even tighter after Brego stumbled over some last remaining flotsam before they finally reached solid ground again.

The waters that had flooded Isengard gently washed pebbles and earth away, licking at the borders of Fangorn Forest and the vast grassland beyond that would eventually lead them to the Mirkwood and further North to the Grey Mountains. Shielding his eyes from the sun, Aragorn glanced up North and, for the first time, realised that his journeys had never brought him into Dwarven realms before. A strange curiosity grew within his chest and he secretly hoped for Gandalf to speak the words he most desired to hear right now.

"Travel north and warn them", the wizard smiled as if he had guessed the curious thoughts of Isildur's heir. "But be quick. Be very quick. You have no mere two weeks, understood?"

"You can never make it in two weeks", Éomer objected. "This is folly, Aragorn. The Men need you in this hour. Besides, the road is long and dangerous and leads you past Dol Guldur. You might make it past there alive once, but not twice."

"If you keep me company, I will surely travel safe", Aragorn smiled, causing Éomer to roll his eyes. "Gandalf and Théoden should ride back to Edoras and wait for news from Minas Tirith-"

"I won't wait for news from anybody", Théoden chipped in, blustering again already. "Gondor did not aid us thus I will not aid Gondor."

"Legolas, Éomer, if you two would accompany me-"

Again Aragorn was cut off, this time by excited Hobbit voices though and the low neighing of Arod and Firefoot. Both horses seemed entirely unhappy about the fidgeting Halflings on their backs, kicking and blaring right into their ears.

"We want to come too!" Pippin exclaimed.

"Absolutely! We've never seen a real King before!" Merry added, ignoring both Théoden and Aragorn clearing their throats in unison.

"Please?"

"The Dwarves of Erebor might find the sight of Hobbits quite amusing", Gandalf chuckled and nobody but Legolas truly understood why. After all, the King under the Mountain had encountered Hobbits before and solemnly declared them welcome in his Halls as long as he lived. "It will certainly bring back old memories. You truly will have to be swift, Aragorn. No time to waste, even if it kills the horses."

"They are Horses of Rohan. They don't die so easily."

"I'll be coming along too of course! It's my home after all!" Gimli's voice sounded from behind Aragorn's back. "Besides, haven't seen my old man in a while."

"You won't be staying long, Gimli. A day, maybe two. Is that worth the journey?" Aragorn merely nodded to Gandalf's question and a few minutes later Gandalf and Théoden had shared their provisions with the small company and watched warily as they set off into the setting sun, the hoofs of the horses thundering across the grassland that led to the shores of the Anduin.

"I have a bad feeling about this Gandalf", Théoden muttered. "If only they make it back in time."

"They will. Trust me, Théoden, once the North is secured, the South can rest a little easier. A battle lies before us and it will be gruesome and terrible but this alliance can change the outcome drastically."

"May the Valar hear your words and favour them."

About six days later, the small company reached the eastern borders of Mirkwood. They had passed Lothlórien safely, witnessing many battles on the way and more than once had they feared to be discovered by Orc troops hiding in Dol Guldur and coming from Mount Gundabad in the far North. They had avoided the Men-i-Naugrim and followed narrow paths through Mirkwood, that Legolas safely led them on, knowing his way around the dark forest in his sleep.

On the sixth night, they camped by the shores of Forest River streaming through the tall grass before it would eventually end in the Long-Lake a few miles ahead. They had made a fire and roasted some pheasants, exhausted from the long ride and the hours of fear. The Hobbits told tales and sang many songs, drinking the last remains of ale they still had and with the safety of the Mirkwood in their backs, they finally relaxed a little and feared no foe. From here, it were only mere hours to Erebor and they would reach the great Fortress City safely by midday the next day.

"Another one! Just one more half whole pint!" Pippin shouted, his cheeks a little rosy already.

"There is no more ale left, Master Hobbit", Éomer grinned, turning the small barrel upside down to demonstrate the terrifying emptiness. Only a few remaining drops hit the grass and the Hobbit pulled a face, looking most disappointed.

"There will be plenty of ale in Erebor! The Dwarves are true masters in the art of brewing! Just you wait, young Hobbit. Just you wait", Gimli beamed proud underneath his thick red beard. "And you will have to try the grog! Such fine strong grog can not be found anywhere else on this earth, that is for sure!"

"Remember, we have a mere day before we must return to Edoras. We've promised", Aragorn smiled, quite certain that Gimli would wave his worries off anyways. And surely the Dwarf did.

A strong wind suddenly gushed across the grassland, making the trees rustle and the blades of grass dance in the moonlight. Legolas squinted, looking more than alert suddenly.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"There was a faint sound in the air. Footsteps possibly, I'm not sure. Whatever lurks out there, it's quiet."

"Out where?" Aragorn asked, his hand on the hilt of his sword already. "In the forest?"

"No. It's coming from the grassland."

"Wargs?"

"No Wargs."

Before another word could be muttered, a small dark arrow buzzed through the air and drilled itself deep into Éomer's thick shoulder plates. The force of the blow was strong enough to nearly rip the Man off his feet and he could already tell that his shoulder was badly bruised.

"What in the name of the Valar-"

The attack came suddenly and in an ambush. Cloaked figures, no taller than Goblins but quick and swift and heavily armed. One went straight at Éomer, a blade glistening in his hands while another swiftly brought and axe down on the blades of Legolas' daggers. A third one attacked Aragorn, the blades of his swords crashing down onto Aragorn's sword until sparks flew. The Hobbits and Gimli stared in shock while the clangour of blades echoed across the grassland.


	3. Chapter 3

Yay, Dwarf attack! Thanks for the review GregsMadHatter! I hope the following Chapter will answer some of your questions ;)

Soooo, not much to say really other than thanks for the faves and follows to this story! Enjoy the next Chapter guys!

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CHAPTER II

Éomer clenched his teeth and tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his shoulder. The arrow had been well aimed and sat deeply in his shoulder plate, the metal dented and pressing onto his bones. He was sure that the skin would be bruised and shimmering blue and purple tomorrow, if he made it out alive. Though small, his opponent was fierce and quick and very skilled with a blade. With his left arm somewhat crippled, he merely had his right hand to defend himself.

The hooded creature battered down on his thighs and hips, occasionally dodging the blade of his sword but would not waste any time attacking his chest or face. It was an odd strategy, Éomer found, but working miracles for he soon felt his knees buckle and his hips and waist hurt, cut and bleeding at places. It was a sure way of bringing him down.

Legolas' opponent seemed less agile but more ferocious. He was a little taller than his companions, not as quick but remarkably stronger. His attacks were equally vile as his weapon, an odd mixture of a one bladed axe, a pike and a pick, perfectly forged and useful not only for cutting opponents but also for piercing them. Never in his life had Legolas seen such a brute weapon and it was merely due to his Elven agility that he dodged the blows that came raining down onto him like a deadly hailstorm. His daggers left a deep cut in his opponents arm but the small creature did not falter. A mere hiss came from underneath the dark hood before he charged at the Elf again, cutting and stabbing as if he hadn't felt the cut at all. Those were no mere soldiers, the Elvenprince soon found, but mean, small war machines, prepared to take anyone down who stood in their way.

With the Hobbits cowering behind him, Gimli stood in shock for a while, his eyes wide with terror. He knew those movements, had learned them himself in his youth and yet he could not comprehend what was happening. Those surely were neither the weapons, nor the movements of Goblins.

"No", he mumbled quietly, trying to soothe the frightened Hobbits as well as he could. "No no, that can't be."

A deafening clash sounded across the dark grasslands when the crossed blades of the third assaulter met Aragorn's sword and skidded down the metal, leaving sparks flying and a despicable screeching sound in the air. Isildur's heir grit his teeth, truly struggling against the small, cloaked figure and he had never encountered such strength in such a small being before. The attacks were ferocious and mean, mostly unfair and surely aimed at exhausting him until he would eventually buckle.

Something flashed in the bright moonlight. A silvery glint on the right hand of Aragorn's opponent. It was a thick ring, shining bright with a blue lazurite gleaming in the centre. Gimli cried out when he recognised the precious gem, startling the Hobbits even more.

"Don't! Aragorn! Stop fighting back, now!"

His words were unheard however.

With the blades coming down mercilessly, Aragorn was given no other choice but to defend himself and though a skilled fighter he was, he needed most of his strength to keep the blades and the dangerous hooks at their tips away from him. They had Dwarven runes carved deep into the metal and the hilts were whittled from finest ebony. No Goblin would ever make blades like these. One swing of his sword sent one of the blades flying but instead of backing down, his opponent swiftly drew a massive bronze battle hammer, beautifully engraved and shining bright.

A title flashed in Aragorn's memory, known throughout the lands of Middle-Earth yet he almost forgotten it. _Bronzehammer_. Wielder of the massive hammer 'Balakh', one of the finest and most powerful weapons ever crafted by the Dwarves of the Ered Luin.

He hesitated for a mere second but that second sufficed for his opponent quickly struck out and smashed the massive hammer straight into Aragorn's abdomen. He felt the air pressed from his lungs and his head began to spin. Dizzy and sick, he sank on his knees clutching his stomach and only a mere moment later, he had a sharp blade held to his throat.

It was an unfair move once again but efficient. Isildur's heir glanced up at the cloaked face of his opponent; wary and wondering whether he would really deal a fatal blow.

The clangour suddenly stopped, all eyes on Aragorn and the creature towering over him, though Legolas and Éomer remained still solely because they both had blades held against chest and belly as well and wished not to die. Had it not been for the ambush and the most unfair ways that their opponents had defeated them, they surely would have stood their grounds. But fatigue and surprise had taken their toll and Éomer was the first to drop his sword.

"Show your face at least, before you drag your blade through my throat", Aragorn's voice sounded clear, no trace of fear, no tremble.

A gasp resounded amongst the members of the small company when the cloaked figures pulled their hoods off and revealed themselves. Mere Dwarves. All three of them.

The one before Éomer was the smallest and most agile of them, his dark hair held by a large silver barrette at the back of his head and his full, dark beard was cut remarkably short. The dark eyes glistened dangerously and black Dwarven runes were tattooed on his right cheek, right below his eye. His clothes were light and made from the finest suede, the quiver and bow on his back giving him away as a scout or huntsman, though the crest on his chest marked him as nobility and the beautifully crafted sword showed high military ranks.

The one that had attacked Legolas was large and about the same age as the first one. He was bulky and muscular, his dark hair held back by many braids and decorated with countless silver clasps. His beard was braided by the chin and as raven black as his hair but smart grey eyes glistened underneath thick brows. Black tattoos decorated his forehead and the bridge of his nose and the light armour he wore was coloured in brown and red, showing that he was originally from another Dwarven clan than the other two.

The one standing before Aragorn looked most unusual though. He held his head high while looking down on Isildur's heir, something regal and remarkably beautiful in his slowly ageing face. The bright blond hair was braided carefully, just like his whiskers and his eyes gleamed light blue and more intelligent than the eyes of any other Dwarf Aragorn had ever encountered. Only now did he notice the heavy jewellery on his fingers and a silver necklace hanging from his neck with a key attached to it. In his hand, the bronze hammer lay heavy and by now there was no mistaken anymore that this was the legendary weapon Balakh.

A broad grin suddenly spread on Gimli's features and he gleefully clapped his hands, making the poor Hobbits jump.

"I knew it!" he bellowed. "I knew it within a few seconds! Lower the weapons! Quit the fighting already."

The blond Dwarf slowly lowered his blade, as did the other two but Aragorn hesitated for a moment before he stood up again, still feeling sick to the stomach. He raised his eyebrows when Gimli quickly approached him and bowed his head before the other Dwarf. "My Lord. I didn't expect a gentle welcome but this is going a little further than I anticipated."

"Those are no Easterlings. That one's an Elf-" the bulky Dwarf detected, knocking on Legolas' leather bracers, which merely resulted in the Elf pulling his hand away, wrinkling his nose a little. "And those are-"

"Hobbits!" The smallest of them suddenly rushed towards Merry and Pippin, causing the two Halflings to jump in fright and scurry off to where Aragorn was still warily watching the blond Dwarf. "Nadad! Look at that! By Mahal, those really are Hobbits!"

"Yes, they are", Gimli snickered. "Lads, those are Merry and Pippin from the Shire, Aragorn, son of Arathorn and heir to the throne of Gondor, Éomer, Chief Marshall of the Rohirrim and erm Legolas. Woodland Elf."

"We've met before", Legolas smiled benignly, while bowing his head to the Dwarves.

"And you are?" Aragorn enquired.

"This is Thorin Stonehelm, son of the legendary Dáin Ironfoot", Gimli began, nodding towards the massive Dwarf with the nasty weapon. "This is Kíli, Captain of the Guard and Chief Marshall of the Legions of Erebor and this is Fíli, son of Dís, King under the Mountain."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, we done with the introduction now?" Kíli chipped in, again curiously stepping closer to the Halflings. "Hobbits from the Shire, huh? Haven't seen your folks around for a while."

"I-I wouldn't recommend you harming us!" Merry declared, drawing his sword and waving it about before Kíli's nose. "We are under the protection of the King of Gondor!"

A strange memory flashed up in the brothers' minds. The memory of another Hobbit waving a blade in their faces, after two days of unconsciousness, in the lair of a dragon. Fíli and Kíli exchanged a glance, and then burst out laughing. They entirely ignored the puzzled faces around them and it took them a good few minutes until they eventually gasped for air again, even wiping some tears from the corner of their eyes.

"Our apologies", Fíli chuckled. "We mistook you for Easterlings."

"You fight fierce, my Lord", Aragorn muttered, rubbing his mistreated stomach.

"I have no choice when my homelands are endangered", Fíli smiled up at the man and the sole charm that lay in this smile took Isildur's heir by surprise. "Grog usually helps. If we may sit with you that is?"

"You'd be most welcome."

"Grog cures anything", Thorin grinned, his voice deep and thunderous while he strode past Legolas as if the Elf was made of thin air.

Only a few moments later, they found themselves sitting around the small campfire, each with a mug of strong, hot grog in hands. Though the first mild breezes of spring were blowing from the South and the far East already, the nights remained chilly and the small company was grateful for a little warmth. Gimli sat with his kin, beaming like a child and Kíli had, more or less unconsciously, sought the company of the Hobbits, for they reminded him of a dear friend he hadn't seen in many years.

"You spoke of Easterlings", Aragorn began after his stomach had settled again. "It's unusual for Easterlings to venture this far North isn't it?"

"It is, which is why we've begun to hunt them down", Fíli explained, stuffing a pipe. "We've captured a few over the past days but none of them spoke, so we'll continue to kill them until one eventually will speak."

"I believe that won't be necessary anymore", Aragorn muttered, causing the King under the Mountain to raise his eyebrows. "They have most likely been sent by Sauron. The Dark Lord fears an alliance of the Free Peoples of the North and the South and will therefore try to bring the North down."

"By sending some Easterlings?" Thorin asked dryly. "Not sure if I'd feel offended or not."

Though nearly eighty years had passed since he had last seen them, they had not changed much, Legolas found. Their faces had aged a little, some wrinkles showing around the eyes and some light strands were already weaved in Fíli's blond mane but both brothers still showed the same juvenile waggishness and both still had the same cheeky glint in their eyes. While Kíli had grown up to become the living image of his uncle Thorin Oakenshield, dignified and graceful but easily offended, Fíli had his father's bearings and the rather rough but patient composure of an Iron Hills Dwarf. There was a lot of Thráin in the proud King. A silent sort of dominance that rested in his gentle blue eyes, showing kindness and safety but at the same time utter surety and confidence. There was something regal about Fíli, Legolas found, but the mischievous smirk still played on his lips.

"So, you're from the Shire then?" Kíli asked, curiously eyeing the Hobbits.

"We are!" Pippin proudly declared. "Merry here is erm, the heir to the Brandy Halls in Buckland and I am a Took and his first cousin on our father's side!"

"A Took?"

Once again the brother's exchanged glances and a certain talk they had overheard many years ago came back to mind.

'_I am a Baggins of Bag End!'_

'_But you're also a Took.'_

"You don't happen to know a Hobbit called Bilbo Baggins, do you?"

"Bilbo? Sure we know him!" Pippin beamed. "He's my first cousin twice removed from my mother's side!"

"Nobody cares about that Pip", Merry chipped in. "We pretty much spent our childhood in Bag End after Bilbo had taken his nephew Frodo in. Same age, you know? So yes, we do know Bilbo. Why are you asking though?"

"He's a good friend of ours", Fíli smiled, feeling a little heartache. Over the past years, the brothers had missed their friend many times and the urge to see him once again had grown strong. A few years back, Nori, Bofur and Bifur had set off to Bag End to pick Bilbo up for another adventure but they had not seen them ever since. "Is he doing well then?"

"He's settled down in Rivendell", Merry nodded. Suddenly, his face lit up and Pippin blinked a little irritated. "You're those Dwarves!"

"What Dwarves?"

"The ones who took him on the quest with the dragon!"

"Don't be silly", Pippin blustered. "We both know it's just a tale he made up."

"Oh but it isn't", Kíli chuckled. "We are part of the company that took Bilbo on the quest many, many years ago. He's helped us reclaim our homelands and he was present when Fíli was crowned King under the Mountain."

"So he has seen Erebor before!"

"He has indeed", Fíli smiled. "And it has been a while since we last welcomed Hobbits in our Halls. We would thus like to invite you to be our guests for a little while so you can see with your own eyes that the grand tales of Master Baggins are true. What do you say?"

Both Hobbits looked at Aragorn with pleading eyes, eventually joined by Gimli who had missed his home in those past months.

"Very well, very well", Aragorn smiled. "But only a day or two. Battle preparations are calling in the South."

"Well then", Gimli grinned, downing his mug of grog. "Off we go!"


End file.
